Satan in St Mary

training and work in the Chancery and in the King's Bench compelled him to complete tidily and satisfactorily the matter in hand.
Eight
    The next morning Corbett rose early and made his way back to Cheapside and the church of Saint Mary Le Bow. A slatternly woman, who announced that she kept house for the priest, stated that the rector was absent but, if he wanted, Corbett could wait. The clerk made his way across the churchyard and entered the main door of the church. It was deserted. Everything was as normal. The Blessed Chair was back in its proper place. No trace remained of the violent crime which had been committed there, the chairs and the benches were still stacked against the wall, so Corbett wrapped himself in his cloak and sat at the base of one of the pillars just inside the nave of the church. He crouched there staring at the long black iron bar from where Duket had hanged himself and then at the Blessed Chair back in its proper position before the high altar.
    Something suddenly caught his attention. He rose, went up the church and moved the Blessed Chair to where he had found if the last time he had visited the church after it had been moved by Duket in his supposed suicide. Corbett placed the chair as closely as he remembered it from last time, then stood on it and stared at the long metal bar above him. Satisfied, he got down, moved the chair back and turned to go back down the church, almost shouting with fright at the black-gowned figure which appeared before him.
    "Good morning, Master Clerk. Did I scare you?"
    Corbett stared at the pale, sallow features of Bellet, the rector, trying to look calm while he endeavoured to soothe the panic which had set his heart pounding.
    "No, " he lied. "I was simply studying the place where Duket died. "
    "Ah, yes, Duket. I understand you have been very busy on this matter. "
    Corbett caught the sarcasm in the priest's voice and saw the smirk on his pale thin lips. He hated this man who was staring at him as if he was some sort of conspirator, as if this priest knew something unpleasant. A joke at Corbett's expense. "Yes, Master Priest, " Corbett said deliberately. "I have been very busy reading a report about William Fitz-Osbert and the abominable rites he committed in this church. " He felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched Fitz-Osbert's name wipe the smirk as well as any colour from the priest's face.
    "Oh, have I frightened you, Master Priest?" he asked. "Surely you know about Fitz-Osbert? He can do little harm now being burnt to death over a hundred years ago. " The priest's nervousness was almost tangible. A fine sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead and he kept wiping the palms of his hands along the dirty black robe he wore. Corbett watched him closely. "What is it, Master Priest?"
    The rector turned slightly, looking around as if he expected someone in the far shadows of the church to be listening. "Nothing, " Bellet whispered. "There is nothing the matter. I just cannot see that Fitz-Osbert's death has anything to do with the suicide of Lawrence Duket. "
    Corbett patted the man gently on the shoulder. "Oh, Priest, " he said softly. "Duket did not commit suicide. He was murdered and I intend to see the perpetrators suffer for their crime. "
    He walked round the priest and strode out of the church leaving the rector in the cold darkness behind.
    Corbett intended to go straight to The Mitre but, just as he turned out into Cheapside, he felt a hand grasping his arm. He turned quickly, instinctively going for the knife in his sheath, only to find himself staring into the round bland face and cornflower-blue eyes of Hubert Seagrave, a leading Chancery clerk. Corbett had always disliked Hubert with his spiteful tongue and vicious way of hindering anyone who might oppose his preferment in the royal service. He was the last person he expected to see in Cheapside and Seagrave was clearly enjoying his astonishment and dismay.
    "Master Corbett, " he lisped. "How good to find you here. You have led us quite a dance. You were not at your lodgings, nor even at The Mitre. " The slight sarcasm in his voice swilled through his words like dirt through clear water.
    Corbett bowed in mock deference. "And you, Master Seagrave? I never thought you had legs. The only time I see you, you are either on a stool or on your knees licking the boots of some great man!"
    Seagrave's fat face flushed with annoyance as he jabbed a stubby finger into Corbett's chest. "It is you,